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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303508">Only Rain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake'>Blake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Denial, First Time, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, PWP, Pillow Fights, Pining, Rain, Season/Series 01, Sexual Tension, Smut, historically inaccurate windows, sagittarius merlin, this is what my self-indulgent writing looks like</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:42:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is one thing worse than boredom: his prince’s boredom.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>259</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Only Rain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the prompt "rain." Title from the Erasure song "Rain." Subject: rain.</p>
<p>The least angsty thing I've written in a while! Honestly, writing has been a real struggle for me lately, and I deeply appreciate being able to share "finished" products with you all. Thank you so much for reading!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Merlin stares forlornly out at the rain. It’s the eleventh consecutive day of grey, cold wet. He rubs his eyes, hard, thinking it wouldn’t be so bad if he clawed them out by accident. Nothing is worse than boredom. When he opens his eyes again, and the sparks of white fade from his vision, it’s still raining outside. He hangs his head, looking down at the grey, unforgiving stone his forearms rest on, contemplating how hard he would have to hit his head against it to knock himself out. </p>
<p>“<em>Mer</em>lin,” drawls a singular voice from the other side of the room.</p>
<p>There is one thing worse than boredom: his prince’s boredom. </p>
<p>“Yes, <em>Ar</em>thur?” Merlin mimics, half because his annoyance finds its way too easily into his voice and half because calling Arthur by name still usually prompts some kind of reaction, even after all these months, and <em>any</em> reaction is probably better than boredom.</p>
<p>Arthur’s sound of surprise or affront—stifled into submission before it can really be defined—serves as a pleasant distraction for no more than three seconds. Merlin’s heart slows again, and the sky is still the same color as the stone.</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t you be polishing my armor or something?” Arthur asks, because demanding inane tasks is his favorite way to deflect after being set back on his heels, and also, apparently, the only means he has to distract himself from boredom.</p>
<p>“S’done,” Merlin says, not bothering to lift his chin from where it’s perched on his stacked hands. If there <em>was</em> armor polishing to pull him away from his very important business (of leaning bent in half, staring out an unchanging window and listening to a spoiled prince repeatedly throw a pillow up to the canopy of his bed and catch it), then Merlin might actually reconsider his previously negative view of armor polishing.</p>
<p>“Do it again.”</p>
<p>Merlin doesn’t even bother scowling at him. “I’ve done it eight out of the last ten days, and you haven’t even put it on.”</p>
<p>Arthur stops throwing the pillow for a second. It <em>almost</em> makes Merlin feel bad. “That’s not <em>my</em> fault,” he argues, always anxious to defend, as if Merlin doesn’t already know how <em>hard</em> he tries and how <em>good</em> he is and how <em>eagerly</em> he’d drown himself in rain and burn up with fever for a stupid patrol with the knights. For some reason, King Uther is happy to let his son nearly die in unfair combat or on solo hunting trips, but he draws the line at risking him getting sick in the rain. Perhaps it’s a matter of pride, Merlin thinks, of not wanting an ignoble death for his heir. Or, he thinks again, excitement rushing through him at the prospect of something to puzzle through, perhaps there’s some sorcery behind the rain that would make it especially dangerous to the prince of Camelot, and that’s why Uther won’t let his son go out in it.</p>
<p> Arthur says, “Wash my clothes, then,” and the excitement of mystery disappears. It’s clear that Uther simply hates Merlin and wishes to make his life miserable, and that’s why he won’t let his son leave the castle. And why he forced Merlin to be the prince’s manservant in the first place.</p>
<p>“They’re all clean,” Merlin informs him, “aside from the ones you’re wearing.”</p>
<p>Something soft, rendered hard by the force of the throw, hits Merlin in the side. His immediate reaction is outrage that Arthur would just toss his <em>body-warm shirt</em> at him, but when he sees that the object is, in fact, a pillow, and that Arthur is still clothed, he has to admit he’s disappointed. Or else just ignore his feelings completely. “You prat.”</p>
<p>“Well, do <em>something</em>,” Arthur pleads, as if Merlin is his jester, meant to entertain by scrubbing the floor for the third time that week.</p>
<p>“Why should I?” Merlin asks, conveniently leaving out the part where he would barter most of his worldly possessions just for <em>something</em> to do. </p>
<p>“Because you’re driving me mad!” Arthur flops messily back onto his previously <em>very neatly made</em> bed and picks up another pillow to start throwing and catching against his chest.</p>
<p>“<em>I’m</em> driving <em>you</em> mad?!” Merlin picks up the pillow at his feet and throws it so it knocks Arthur’s <em>new</em> pillow off its course, fixing the timing only slightly with a quick flash of magic. His magic’s a bit off-balance though, after so many days behind stone walls, and the pillows both smash quite dramatically through the wooden front of a nearby cupboard.</p>
<p>Exasperated, Arthur raises both arms up as if addressing a great audience in the ceiling. “Yes, Merlin, it’s like being locked in a stall with a stall-sour horse. It’s as if you’ve never been stuck indoors before.”</p>
<p>The accusation takes Merlin off guard, because, yes, <em>of course</em> he’s never been stuck indoors for this long before. Ealdor had more than its fair share of foul weather, but rain didn’t stop the chickens from needing to be fed or the cow from needing milking. He’d never thought of it before, but he’s sure he never lived a day in Ealdor without stepping foot outside, even if it was just to brush snow off a pile of firewood and bring in some logs to dry on the hearth. “Why don’t you just send me out to pasture, then?”</p>
<p>Arthur rolls onto his side, outrage all over his face, showing his crooked tooth and the brightest blue of his eyes. “And what would I do if I—” he pauses, as if struggling to find some real purpose for Merlin’s presence aside from his entitlement to everything under the sun—“if I need a cup of water?”</p>
<p>Merlin stands upright, pursing his lips, choosing not to deign to the level of pointing out that Arthur could perfectly well pour a pitcher of water. “You could stick your head out the window and open your mouth,” he says, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach that hints at something like pleasure that Arthur needs him so much; the display of the prince’s lack of independence is <em>perfectly irritating</em>, and doesn’t at all ignite this flame-huge thing at his center that revels in the idea of sharing a destiny with this strong, broad-shouldered, soft-skinned, surprisingly thoughtful prat of a prince. </p>
<p>“<em>You</em> could,” Arthur retorts, face red and getting redder, as it always does on the rare occasion that he can’t get a last word in that meets even <em>his</em> low standards.  </p>
<p>At least it’s something to do. Merlin pushes the window open, sticks his front half into the rain, and twists so his face is turned toward the dull grey sky. He squints his eyes shut against the fat, pelting rain drops. Water pools in the corners of his eyes, but he feels closer to smiling than he has all week. He takes a long-needed deep breath, chokes on rain, and coughs up laughter. </p>
<p>There’s a sharp tug on the front of his shirt and then he’s being violently hauled up onto his feet. It’s Arthur, of course it’s Arthur, sure as anything, two fists in Merlin and frowning at him with furrow in his brow, anger and something else. “You’ll catch your death, Merlin,” he says, the reprimand in his voice hollowed out by that concern of his which rears its head so erratically.</p>
<p>Merlin tries to stand on his own two feet, but there’s no angle he can find to loosen the tension of Arthur’s strong grip on him, and so he softens into it.  He watches the cast shadows of raindrops slide down Arthur’s face and starts to see him in a new light. A boy who <em>has</em> spent a great deal of time indoors. A boy whose father can command him to stay within the castle, even in his adulthood. A boy who’s afraid of catching a cold. A boy who’s afraid of his <em>manservant</em> catching a cold. A boy who makes his manservant polish his armor ten times because he wants his company. A boy who wants his manservant’s company.</p>
<p>“I won’t,” Merlin assures him, hitching an easy smile onto his face and watching Arthur’s eyes track the movement.</p>
<p>Arthur’s hands release his shirt, only to rub too rough through Merlin’s hair. “You’re soaked through,” Arthur says flatly, fingers squeezing out the bucket’s worth of water that landed on Merlin in those few blissful, unconfusing, clear seconds where his head was outside the confines of Arthur’s chambers.</p>
<p>“Hm,” is all Merlin can bring himself to say against the tide of warmth and the urge to purr like a cat under Arthur’s touch. Any second now, that touch is going to turn to pinching or slapping or something else sharp and unpleasant, just as it always does, inevitably. </p>
<p>“Merlin.”</p>
<p>“Arthur?” Merlin fights to keep an easy air, ready for the fall. But Arthur stays, rubbing over Merlin’s shoulders and hair with a roughness that has nothing to do with cruelty. Maybe none of the ways Arthur has ever touched him have had to do with cruelty. Merlin reaches with shaking hands to catch low in the smooth, clean material of Arthur’s blue tunic, knuckles grazing the place where his trousers dig into the soft swell of his stomach. He feels Arthur’s breath turn unsteady with the backs of his fingers. </p>
<p>“Merlin, <em>do something</em>,” Arthur says, all grit, and those words, too, are cast in a new light. Merlin’s whole being flares up bright and hot at the thought of all the things he could do, if he was allowed. He could kiss Arthur stupid. He could make Arthur come so hard he forgets his name. He could take him mid-battle and tackle him to the ground and never let him up. He could destroy all of Camelot and recreate it with his own hands in whichever image would make Arthur smile most.</p>
<p>“Why should I?” It comes out a whisper, no matter how hard Merlin tries to give it voice.</p>
<p>They’re standing, unsteady, not quite swaying and not quite walking, though their feet shift beneath them. But Arthur’s body is canting into his, undeniable, and Merlin really, really, very badly wants to keep that awed expression on Arthur’s clenching mouth, to keep him pressing ever forward until they’re up against a wall and have nowhere left to go but into each other. </p>
<p>Merlin only realizes that his question makes it sound like he was repeating their prior conversation in order to fish for a particular answer when Arthur gives that answer, quiet, resigned, painfully fragile, and impossibly, stupidly stubborn. “Because you’re driving me mad.”</p>
<p>It’s a confession, not an accusation, and it would go straight to Merlin’s head if it wasn’t too busy going straight to his prick. </p>
<p>He tries to meet Arthur’s eyes, but they’re fixed low on his face and then even lower, when Merlin shifts his hand to brush his knuckles—exploratory, questioning— over the hot, hard, mouthwatering line of Arthur’s cock through his trousers.</p>
<p>Merlin doesn’t need eye contact to see how much Arthur approves of the touch.</p>
<p>He shifts forward to tilt his head and press a kiss to Arthur’s slightly parted, stone-still lips. Undeterred, determined—all questions can wait—Merlin backs Arthur up against the wall, kisses the stubbled corner of his jaw, then the jagged ridge of his throat, then the shallow between his collarbones, then the valley of his soft, muscular chest, making no secret of the direction he’s headed. He drops to his knees when Arthur’s hands in his shirt slacken enough, as much of a promise as the wordless groan in Arthur’s mouth or the tight, desperate flex of his thick, flushed cock when Merlin pulls it out and presses a light kiss to its veined underside. </p>
<p>Merlin’s no expert at this, but he can absolutely pretend to be if it means keeping Arthur’s darkened eyes trained on his every movement, if it means keeping the cloying salty heat of Arthur’s prick in his mouth, on his tongue, filling every crevice he never knew existed. </p>
<p>But apparently, keeping Arthur in his mouth is too much to ask for. After not nearly enough minutes of Merlin stuffing his mouth with, teasing his throat with, wringing his hands around, and licking every inch of Arthur’s cock, it’s ending. Arthur grabs his hair again, wringing yet more rain out of it to drip onto the too-warm nape of Merlin’s neck, and he pulls Merlin’s head and his own hips in opposite directions—the reverse of what Merlin was taking deep breaths and opening his throat in preparation for, and the restraint in the gesture is dizzyingly arousing—until all Merlin can reach is the drawn-bare tip. Merlin sucks on it and strokes with his tongue until the first thick, wet spurt surges into his mouth, and then he just lets Arthur have the open circle of his lips to rock into ever so gently into as he comes and comes onto the waiting flat of Merlin’s tongue.</p>
<p>Merlin whines when the stream tapers off, but he might have been whining all along.</p>
<p>When Arthur pulls him abruptly to his feet, Merlin’s somehow not expecting how clear his eyes are, and yet how dark, and how intently they’re locked on his. He’s not expecting how hard and fast Arthur’s exhales come, and how incredibly, unthinkably good they taste on Merlin’s still-parted mouth. Merlin can’t demurely stop himself from panting directly back into Arthur’s mouth, breath for breath, a filthy bellows of in and out, out and in, and the taste of Arthur everywhere, right where it should be.</p>
<p>And then—like he’s spent the last several seconds working up to it, like he’s been waiting for this for minutes on end, for months, for a lifetime—Arthur closes his lips around Merlin’s and kisses him. It’s nothing like the stunned, uncertain kiss earlier; it’s searching and possessive and that improbable union between the two: <em>giving</em>. Or at least, the type of giving that’s the same as needing. Merlin’s absolutely consumed by it. He’s tongue deep, come-bitter, chatter-toothed in Arthur Pendragon’s mouth, and he suddenly never wants to be anywhere else.</p>
<p>But Arthur, apparently, wants him in <em>bed</em>, and the thought alone is enough to completely unground him, if the speed and force with which Arthur sloppily pushes him across the room and onto the mattress wasn’t enough. The world’s still spinning—and Arthur’s still kissing him, which might be part of the whole world-spinning thing—when Arthur shoves his wide, muscular thigh between Merlin’s, offering up a painfully perfect and all too tempting plane to rut against until he’s coming, untouched, in his trousers, while Arthur licks out the groans from the back of his mouth.</p>
<p>It’s possible that Merlin grins stupid-happy up into Arthur’s face for too long after. He’s practically asking for it. </p>
<p>Arthur clears his throat, but his pale cheeks are still tinged pink, his body still warm and soft and <em>touchable</em>. His hand is still tracing up and down the length of Merlin’s side, under his shirt. “Well, now you have some washing to do,” Arthur says, almost completely failing to put any of his usual bite in it.</p>
<p>Because he thinks he can get away with it, and because he’s always been the sort to push his luck, Merlin catches Arthur’s hand and draws it—slowly, giving time for him to evade—into Merlin’s trousers, to feel how utterly wet and sticky his softened cock and its environs are. Arthur’s face only grows redder, and he does not back down from the challenge. Merlin has always loved that about him, even if it’s terribly frustrating at times that are not <em>this</em> time.</p>
<p>“I certainly do,” Merlin agrees, murmuring, getting his lips close enough to Arthur’s to tease another kiss from him while he’s still supple like this. When he gets it, he grins so hard Arthur ends up kissing his teeth. “Poor little stall horse,” he says, thinking back on all the ways Arthur has looked at him and <em>looked</em> at him the past few days, stuck inside with nothing for them to do but look at each other. “Never been taken out for a proper ride.”</p>
<p>He regrets his teasing only a little, when Arthur’s hand grows ungentle on its way out of his trousers. But then Arthur is pushing him bodily onto his back, letting their hips press fully together for the first time, giving Merlin all of his strong, beautiful weight. Worst, or best, of all, Arthur’s mouth is quirked to the side in humor, and the blue of his eyes shimmers like the surface of a lake at sun-up. “I’ve been on more hunts and rides and long trips than you can even <em>count</em>,” he says, grumbling probably more than he realizes, making less sense than he probably aims to. He grinds gently against Merlin, though, so it’s not as though there’s anything to complain about. </p>
<p>“Never been let out to run about and play, then,” Merlin says, half breath, half laughter, all teasing, and nothing but affectionate. He winds his fingers through the soft strands of Arthur’s hair, combing it as he often does, but without purpose for once, instead of for public appearance.</p>
<p>Rain continues its barrage against the precious glass windows, keeping the whole of Camelot in stasis, but Merlin licks wetly at the line of his prince’s eyebrow until it furrows deeply and Arthur lifts up to scowl at him. “You can play with me,” Merlin whispers.</p>
<p>The kiss Arthur gives him then is as good as an assent.</p>
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